


The Fine Art of Being Invisible

by renaissance



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <b>A Compendium of Fantastical Creatures, #46: the Benchwarmer</b>
  </p>
  <p>Found in every arena of sporting, the Benchwarmer is a sad, pathetic creature that plays their chosen sport purely for the love of the game and in support of their team. These admirable qualities go unnoticed, however, as the Benchwarmer’s defining feature is that they are not as skilled at the sport as their more talented teammates. As such, the Benchwarmer languishes in obscurity, and is only spotted by the keenest-eyed observer. It is believed that, in extreme cases, some Benchwarmers may even become invisible.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Being Invisible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carafin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carafin/gifts).



> The seed of this idea is from a conversation, long ago—and perhaps I am indulging, to some degree testing the theory that inspired it. Anyway, happy birthday, Fin! Here's the crackship I promised you I'd never forget. And, just for you, it's secretly genfic.
> 
> Thanks to San for beta-reading!

There’s one incident from his second year that Kinoshita remembers clearer than any other. It was just after Spring High, and he and Narita were out shopping because Narita needed new trainers. Kinoshita didn’t mind being dragged along—after all, it felt like _years_ since he had done anything other than volleyball. And here he was shopping for shoes. Well, a one-track mind was better than nothing.

They were in a sports superstore, turning the corner into the shoe aisle, when Kinoshita walked head-first into a stranger. It got weird when the stranger said, “Oh, Karasuno!”

Kinoshita rubbed his eyes in case he was seeing things—but, no, he’d definitely just walked into Oikawa Tooru. “How’d you recognise us?” he asked.

For a moment, something like pity flashed across Oikawa’s face. He turned from Kinoshita and pointed a finger at Narita. “You played against Shiratorizawa,” he said. “I was watching that match, you know.”

“Ah,” Narita said, rubbing the back of his head shyly. Kinoshita knew that even though Narita was proud of what he’d done, he still felt that he could’ve done better, still thought about it every day. “Yeah, I did.”

Oikawa pulled a face—Kinoshita couldn’t quite read it, but it was a sort of childish pride, he thought. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around,” Oikawa said.

Then, they walked past each other without another word.

Kinoshita wasn’t a jealous guy by nature. He was used to being on the bench, and far from getting bratty when his friends had a chance to shine, he was always the one cheering loudest, always the most invested in their success. He didn’t mind being the only player on their team who’d never played in an official match, because it didn’t really matter to him, so long as he was there to witness it all.

But in that moment, as Narita uncomfortably tried to brush off the encounter and Kinoshita covered up his discomfort by gently teasing him about it, he’d never felt more insignificant.

 

* * *

**Case study: Ennoshita**

* * *

 

Kinoshita packs lunch—yesterday’s dinner, not that anyone will know—and a bottle of water. He almost takes a hat too, but the only thing he can find is an ugly bucket hat his father got for him once and has never been worn since middle school, when that sort of thing was acceptable. He resolves just to sit in the shade, if there is any.

It’s been a few weeks since graduation, and his job hunting has hit a disheartening standstill. Kinoshita’s mostly applied for retail jobs, planning to work his way up to a managerial position and maybe make something of himself, but even the sport equipment store had rejected him, and that’d been his best bet. So instead he’s helping out his prestigious friend, which involves a day at the park in the hot sun—it can’t be helped. Ennoshita is very specific about his locations, after all.

Ennoshita’s movies have been getting stranger and stranger, least of all because of the wide involvement from his friends from other schools. Kinoshita can barely connect with a volleyball on court, so he’s not sure how Ennoshita managed to connect with every other volleyball captain— _former_ captains, now—in the prefecture, and then some. But, there’s something about Ennoshita that attracts people, his understated ambition and subtle charm. He’s just _likeable_. Kinoshita envies that.

This time, he’s got former Seijou team members who’re their age, alongside the usual crowd—there’s Yahaba, the ex-captain, who’s working with Narita on some of the sound things, and even Kyoutani, a sullen, self-styled punk, is helping with set dressing. Kinoshita’s not really sure exactly what they’re doing, because he’s not one of Ennoshita’s regular assistants. The most he’s done is look through a few draft scripts and make sarcastic comments about anything he thinks is too corny or not obvious enough. So, his role today is sitting under a tree and guarding the props and equipment while everyone else gets to work.

Well, someone has to do it.

“Thanks for helping me out today,” Ennoshita says, so genuinely that he may as well be thanking one of his actors. “I get the feeling this is going to be a busy day on set.”

Kinoshita likes how he always speaks as though he’s directing in a Hollywood studio, when in fact they’re just at a park near their old school. “No worries,” he says. “I reckon I’ve got the easiest job around.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ennoshita says, “there’s a lot to be said for a bodyguard.”

“Now if only I were guarding some bodies,” Kinoshita jokes.

Ennoshita gives him a fond smile, the sort that hooks his cast and crew and makes them all so drawn to his benign facade. Kinoshita can’t blame them; he’s just as bad, committing himself to a day of doing absolutely nothing for the sake of a kind smile and some grander dream.

That’s the thing about Ennoshita, he’s always dreamed big, constantly worked to outstrip even his own expectations of himself. That’s what got him off the bench in their third year—granted, he was also made captain, which was something he refused right up until it was forced on him, but once he settled in, he pushed himself. Sometimes not enough, sometimes almost _too_ much.

Lots of people were surprised by how well he took to the role—Kinoshita remembers Narita talking about people in their class whispering that no _way_ was that quiet, strange boy a club captain—but not Kinoshita. He’d known as soon as he’d seen Ennoshita’s first film that he was going to do something amazing with his life.

Sitting back on the grass in the shade of the tree, he watches as Ennoshita steps out into the sun, raising his homemade megaphone and shouting an instruction to his gathered flock. It’s drowned out, though, by another voice.

“Can I sit here?”

When Kinoshita looks up, he recognises Seijou’s former libero—he feels bad for not remembering his name, but he’s not one of the egregious personalities like Yahaba and Kyoutani, who’re currently bickering over the best position for a hidden microphone that won’t get caught by the camera.

“Sure,” Kinoshita says. “There’s not much happening, though.”

“That’s alright,” the libero says, “I’m just here because Yahaba dragged me along as a meatshield.”

“A meatshield?”

“You know, someone to step in if he tries to punch Kyoutani again,” he explains.

_Again_ , Kinoshita thinks, glancing at where they’re _still_ fighting. “Okay, now I get it,” he says. “Oh, uh, I never introduced myself—”

“Kinoshita, right?” the libero says, and Kinoshita is so startled that for a moment he doesn’t process it. “Ennoshita said to me, ‘You can sit with Kinoshita under the tree, if you want.’”

“R-right,” Kinoshita stammers. In hindsight, it makes sense. How else would this guy know his name? There’s no other possible explanation. He’d have heard someone say it. And most others here don’t know him, so it’d have to be Ennoshita or Narita. Right.

“I’m Watari Shinji, by the way,” he says.

“Yeah,” Kinoshita lies, “I knew that. You’re a starter, after all.”

Watari hums. “I _was_.”

 

* * *

**Case study: Narita**

* * *

 

Kinoshita’s first job is in the venerable fast food service industry. It’s the only job that didn’t come with a big _prior experience required_ stamped across its advertisement, and Kinoshita’s more than happy taking orders and assembling salads. Even if it’s dull and repetitive, it’s _easy_ , and he can do easy.

It’s strange, though, doing the same thing day after day and watching the world turn around him. Suddenly Ennoshita’s moving to Tokyo and Narita’s moving to bloody _Australia_ , pursuing the things they love the most, and Kinoshita’s putting no more than three chicken strips on top of the precise level of lettuce as dictated by his staff handbook.

Before he leaves, Narita makes a habit of coming by the store for lunch whenever he knows Kinoshita’s working. Narita has a lot of paperwork and packing to do before he can leave and, even though he’s always been good at English, he’s always got textbooks in his bag and spread out across his usual corner table.

“What can I get for you today?” Kinoshita asks, abandoning his standard customer greeting. Friends don’t count, and it’s a small place anyway, so he’s the only one at the counter to witness his misstep.

“Maybe I’ll try the chicken today,” Narita says, peering through the glass at the array of toppings and dressings.

“Everyone gets the chicken,” Kinoshita says.

“Fine,” Narita says, “I’ll get the spicy tofu.”

Actually, Kinoshita hates the idea of a spicy tofu salad—spicy tofu, sure, but why does it have to be a _salad_?—so, partially out of spite, he puts extra chilli sauce on Narita’s serve. Narita won’t mind. He prefers his food spicy, anyway.

“Been quiet today, huh?” Narita asks.

Kinoshita looks up from behind the salad bar sneezeguard. “What makes you say that?”

“For one, there are no other customers,” Narita says. “And you’re going slower than usual.”

“Hey, don’t rush me,” Kinoshita says. “Do you want a sloppy salad?”

Narita raises an eyebrow. “If it looks worse but tastes the same, does that really matter?”

Kinoshita’s job is certainly less glamorous—looks worse, but makes him enough money to get by. Does that really matter?

“I guess not,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not going to be quiet all day. Watari’s coming by later, and—”

“Whoa, hold up,” Narita says. “You’ve been hanging out with Watari?”

“We swapped numbers,” Kinoshita says. “What’s weird about that?”

Since they met on the “set” of Ennoshita’s film, they’ve texted a little bit. It’s the next logical step that they should start hanging out, although when Watari had asked Kinoshita if he wanted to meet for lunch, he probably hadn’t expected Kinoshita to say, “I’m working at lunch hour, but I could cook you something.”

“Nothing, nothing,” Narita says, waving a hand. “You just hadn’t mentioned it.”

Kinoshita’s holding it back because he’s actually got the weird sense that his feelings might turn into something _other_ than friendship, but he wouldn’t put any money on it. The problem is that he’s not sure if he likes Watari because of how they met, or because he’s genuinely a nice person, and Kinoshita’s _type_. So, he’s waiting until he’s certain to make the call. When he knows where it’s going, he’ll tell other people.

“I don’t have to tell you everything,” he jokes.

“I’m your best friend,” Narita says, putting a hand to his chest in mock-offence. “You are contractually obliged to tell me everything.”

“You didn’t tell me you applied to universities in Australia,” Kinoshita shoots back.

“That’s different,” Narita says, looking down at his textbook. “I didn’t know whether it would work out.”

“No,” Kinoshita says, “in that case, it’s exactly the same.”

There’s an awkward pause—Narita doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and Kinoshita goes back to dressing the salad.

“ _Oh_.”

“ _Oh_ what, smartarse?” Kinoshita mumbles, sliding the bowl across the counter. “Here’s your salad.”

“Thanks,” Narita says. He stands up to get the salad, but doesn’t pick it up immediately, just puts his elbows on the counter and rests his chin in his hands. “You _like_ him.”

“So what if I do?” Kinoshita snaps.

“Nothing.” Narita shrugs. “Just, good luck, I guess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kinoshita says. “Take your damn salad, alright?”

Narita does as he’s told, and as a bonus he doesn’t talk to Kinoshita once he’s sat down. Narita’s a neat person, and never talks with his mouth full—coming from a busy household, Kinoshita appreciates this immensely. He’s not sure what he’ll do without Narita around. Probably just keep making salad.

After a while, though, the silence starts to get to him. He slumps forward, leaning on the counter. “Do you think you’re going to keep playing volleyball when you’re in Sydney?”

“I think so,” Narita says. “I’ve watched a bit of Australian volleyball and it seems like I’ll be the shortest one there, but maybe they’ll let me play libero.”

“Don’t joke about stuff like that,” Kinoshita says.

“Are _you_ going to keep playing?”

Kinoshita shrugs. “Might join a neighbourhood team or something.”

He’s still thinking about whether it’s worth it.

 

* * *

**Case study: Watari**

* * *

 

Checking the map on his phone for maybe the fifth time, Kinoshita hovers awkwardly outside the gym. He’s definitely in the right place, but he doesn’t want to think he is. He wants to be lost, wants to have an excuse not to face this. The more he thinks about it, the worse an idea it seems.

It was very innocent when Watari said, “You should come watch one of my team’s games,” but Kinoshita started reading more into it and doing that stupid, _typical_ thing of panicking over whether or not it’s a _date_ , and then he stuffed around so much that he got a little lost on his way to the university gym. Now, he’s wishing he could’ve stayed lost, but the unmistakeable sound of a volleyball match in full swing is filtering out through the gym’s half-open doors, and if Kinoshita sneaks into the back of the stands he can pretend he was there the whole time—

He just has to suck it up and _do_ it.

From the back of the gym, there’s not much to see. It’s a big gym at what Kinoshita presumes is a fancy university—unlike his other friends who didn’t follow the path of higher education, Kinoshita didn’t even bother doing any research.

After a few minutes of frustration, Kinoshita moves down a few rows, and then a few more, and a few more until he finds himself a seat right at the front, leaning over the edge. Watari’s off to the side, and when his team is rotated so that the libero’s on court, Kinoshita is surprised to see that it’s _another_ libero. In fact, Kinoshita recognises him as Shiratorizawa’s libero from their match over a year ago, the one that Narita played in. He’s probably older, more experienced, but that doesn’t change the fact that Kinoshita feels bad for Watari.

Worse—he feels bad for _assuming_ Watari would be a starting member.

Kinoshita lingers after the game. It’d be rude to stay without talking to Watari, but he doesn’t know what the protocol is in this sort of situation, whether or not he should congratulate Watari for his team’s win, without him.

Just as he’s about to chicken out and escape, though, Watari flags him down. “Ah, hey, Kinoshita, you came!”

“Of course I came, stupid,” Kinoshita says. “Did you really think I’d skip out?”

_You nearly did_ , Kinoshita reminds himself. He’s not going to think about that, for now.

“I guess not,” Watari says, rubbing the back of his head. “Want to go get dinner? My teammates are going to a restaurant, and I’m sure they won’t mind if you tag along.”

“Yeah, why not,” Kinoshita says, refusing to feel like he’ll be intruding, because he’s been _invited_ , and that’s final. “It’ll be nice to be on the other side of the counter for once.”

Watari snorts. “I bet,” he says. “Well, I’ll just go get changed, and then we can—”

“Hey,” Kinoshita interrupts, “why didn’t you tell me you were on the bench?”

Blinking, Watari gives him a quizzical look. “I thought you knew,” he says. “It’s not like they’d let a first year straight onto the team, anyway.”

“But you’re from a powerhouse school,” Kinoshita says. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“It’s like getting your final grades,” Watari says. Kinoshita’s about to ask what he means, when he adds, “At the time, it seems so important, but once you’re in university no-one cares. No-one here cares whether I went to a powerhouse school or learnt how to play in my backyard. So long as I’m right for the team, I’ll be allowed to play.”

“Your libero went to Shiratorizawa,” Kinoshita points out. “With him around, how long are you going to stay on the bench?”

Watari gets this glint in his eye when he’s amused, and Kinoshita sees it again now, but in a different light. “By working harder,” he says.

Kinoshita thinks about how he gave up on applying for jobs after he got an offer, about _settling_ when he knows he could be pushing himself. Like Ennoshita, who still sends him clips of his movies, now set amongst skyscrapers and roaring traffic instead of tall trees and quiet local parks. Like Narita, all the way in Australia and playing as a middle blocker on his university’s reserve team. Like _Watari_ , who refuses to give up. Kinoshita thinks about how he’ll never be like any of them, because he doesn’t stick out from a crowd, doesn’t have the _capacity_ to stick out.

So, all he can honestly say is, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Watari says.

Still, there’s one thing Kinoshita can do to put himself out there a bit more. “Want to go somewhere for dessert after dinner?” he asks. “Just us.”

“Yeah,” Watari says, grinning. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

 

* * *

**Case study: Kinoshita**

* * *

 

He joins a neighbourhood team. It’s not much, but it’s a group of amicable people who’re just playing for fun, and Kinoshita likes that atmosphere. He likes that there’s no pressure on them, and that most of the time they play each other in different rotations. They switch positions a lot, and Kinoshita’s learning to set, honing his receives, even blocking a bit, despite being one of the shortest on the team. There are even a few other people who used to go to powerhouse schools like Datekou and Wakunan, and Kinoshita builds up a healthy level of competitive friendliness with them. Sometimes, they play other teams too, and it never matters who wins.

It’s _good_ for Kinoshita.

He still works days at the salad bar, and tries to take some pleasure in it where he can—things like putting four chicken strips instead of three, going overboard on the chilli sauce for annoying customers. Small touches.

With Narita gone, other regular customers take his place, and Kinoshita finds a new hobby in people-watching. If he gets a spare moment, he texts Ennoshita about the most interesting ones, and sometimes in return he even receives a promise to put them in a screenplay. Other times, though, when the shop’s busy, he distracts himself by telling the customers’ stories in his head while he puts their salads together.

He moves out of home after two months of working. The pay’s barely enough for rent, but it’s _enough_ , and that’s what sells him on the decision. He was getting sick of being stuck with his huge family, anyway, and his flat is tiny but close to Watari’s university.

Watari comes around almost every day. He lives on campus, so the food isn’t great, and Kinoshita’s got enough experience cooking that he can make more than just a mean salad. Sometimes, Watari helps him cook—other times, he just sits around and slacks off in front of Kinoshita’s laptop, affectionately known as the “temporary television.”

One Friday afternoon, Watari comes by late after volleyball practice with a newspaper folded under his arm. He’s got a spare key in case of emergency because, three smoke alarms into his first fortnight of rent, Kinoshita realised there was a big chance he’d burn the place down with an experimental skillet meal. So, Kinoshita doesn’t hear him until he calls out, “Evening!”

“Hey,” Kinoshita calls back, turning around slightly but still keeping one eye on the skillet. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, really,” Watari says. “I guess I’m just exhausted. How was your day?”

“Less busy than usual,” Kinoshita says. “Lots of time to waste.”

Watari hums to himself. “Do you want to waste some more?”

“With you? Always,” Kinoshita jokes. He’s getting a bit better at flirting, although his face still heats up every time he says something so corny. He turns back to the skillet, flipping the vegetables he’s frying, hoping he can pass his blush off as a side-product of the steam.

He hears Watari’s footsteps coming towards the kitchenette and, if anything, focuses harder on the vegetables. They’re nowhere near done, so he can afford to drift a little as Watari leans against the oven door and unfurls his newspaper.

“That’s not quite the question I was asking,” he says.

“Oh?”

Watari clears his throat. “Wanted: one apprentice chef, required for chopping and preparing work. Minimal experience needed, as most training will be conducted on the job. Salary—”

“Whoa, hold on,” Kinoshita interrupts. “Where is this?”

“Two streets away,” Watari says. “Anyway, this is in the student newspaper, so they’re clearly looking for someone young. You should apply!”

“I basically work in _salad assembly_ ,” Kinoshita says. “That’s _less_ than minimal experience.”

But as the words leave his mouth, he wonders whether he’s underselling himself. He sometimes chops things, as well as assembling them, and a job in a restaurant would certainly lead to more opportunities than a job in a salad bar. He hates that he’s genuinely considering it.

“You’re thinking about it, though, aren’t you?” Watari asks, dropping the newspaper on the countertop and prodding Kinoshita in the arm.

“Yeah,” Kinoshita admits. He glances at the newspaper. “It definitely pays better than my current job.”

“Might be able to move into a bigger flat,” Watari says. He sounds a little joking, but Kinoshita’s considering it too.

“You could come with,” Kinoshita suggests. “Um, not immediately—I know your dorm is paid for until the end of the year, but after that, if I’ve made enough for a bigger place—” He cuts himself off, frowning. “Sorry, this is stupid, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve only been on two dates.”

To his surprise, though, Watari’s still got the same smile on his face. “On the condition we go on a few more dates between now and then, I wouldn’t mind moving in with you at all.”

“We’ll find somewhere big enough for two bedrooms,” Kinoshita says quickly. “And a proper kitchen.”

“Of course,” Watari says. “You’ll be a proper chef by then.”

Kinoshita thinks about the future. It’s something he _never_ thinks about, if he can help it. He only realises it then, when the future suddenly becomes _tangible_ , an actual option, that he’s been ignoring it for as long as he possibly could. Only it’s not terrifying, like he thought it might be—it’s _exciting_.

In fact, it’s like standing up off the bench, stepping onto court for the first time, with all the crowd watching intently for his next move—whatever it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment!


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